“We should move fast. Whatever’s going on here, I don’t want to meet it.” She grated her teeth. “It feels like… something’s here that even the land doesn’t want to be here. Like before that big black tower burst up, when I got you off that glacier.”

  Severine went white. “What?!”

  Runa grabbed her hand and increased her pace. “Come on. We’re close. That next ridge, and then a climb to the Rim.”

  “It can’t be—”

  “Save your breath!”

  She kept Severine slightly ahead, though not so far that she’d fall into a stream or carnivorous plant and Runa wouldn’t be able to grab her out again. They scaled the last rolling hill before the steep climb up to the Rim. Sunlight burst over them, and then they were down in the valley. In the shadows.

  Wrong. She didn’t know how she knew, just that she did. It was like the Cauldron wanted her to know. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t any of the dangers that normally lurked in the Sweetmeadow. It was something the Sweetmeadow didn’t like. Something it wanted gone.

  A cursed beast from another realm? She’d told Severine things didn’t cross from one land to another. Because that was true. But they could be taken. And once set loose, or once the people who’d taken it were no longer in a position to keep it restrained—i.e., they’d had their arms ripped off—the Cauldron dragged them back where it thought they belonged.

  But this didn’t feel like that, either. It felt like—like…

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK!”

  A massive four-legged animal appeared on the ridge of the hill behind them, a silhouette against the setting sun. Its tusked mouth was open in a squealing roar. Its hooves kicked up huge divots of earth as it barreled towards them.

  “Get behind me!” Runa yelled.

  The beast crashed down the hill. Too fast to change direction. Runa got herself and Severine out of the way of its first charge and it slammed face-first into a berry bush. It snorted, devouring thorny branches in a matter of seconds.

  Runa grabbed Severine’s hand and hauled her up the hill. No point cursing herself for not coming into the Cauldron better armed. No time, either. She pulled the lightstick out of her belt.

  You’ll have to do, she thought grimly.

  Maybe this was her chance to put its fiery power to a real test.

  Heat began to build, inside her and down the haft of the metal rod. “Get up to the Rim and down into the village,” she told Severine. “I’ll keep it distracted.”

  “What is it?!”

  “It—”

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK!”

  The creature raised its head and bellowed in rage, presumably because it only just realized it had been eating berries and thorny branches, not fresh meat. It flung its head around until its tiny, beady eyes focused on Runa.

  Then turned around, oddly delicate on its hooved feet. Like a noble lady about to sic her guards on you, except this thing was the lady and the guards all in one. It moved slowly enough that Runa got her first good look at it.

  Its pelt was matted with congealed mud and knots of weed. If that even was its pelt, and not another layer of muck. Its beady eyes were red-rimmed and red-veined. A thorn branch hung out of its mouth, dangling from one sharp tusk.

  Every breath was an angry, high-pitched grunt. Its sides heaved. Her mind raced away, searching her memories for something like this—a bog-mammoth? Too small. Tusks, but no trunk. One of the patchwork creatures from the Sewing Grounds?

  Not that what it was really mattered, compared to what it was doing. It had demolished the berry bush in less time than it took Runa to drink a cup of ale, and was now staring at her with clear intent in its eyes.

  The ground beneath it shrugged and the creature lost its balance, squealing.

  Whatever it was, the Cauldron wanted it gone, the same way it started to shrug all visitors away once it figured they’d been hanging around too long. And that was trouble, because the closest exit was Pothollow.

  Behind her, Severine’s running footsteps became the scramble of boots on loose rock. She must be almost to the Rim.

  Runa’s eyes narrowed.

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK!”

  The creature staggered back to its feet. It was enormous: longer than Runa was tall, which was a great big serving of bad news if it managed to get her on the ground. Even if she kept out of the way of those tusks, it could still trample her to paste without noticing.

  She resettled her grip on the lightstick. The bubble of light at the wand’s tip was growing, now, the side of a fist, too bright to look at and strangely viscous.

  The creature bellowed.

  She held the lightstick down and to the side, so it wouldn’t blind her.

  “Come on then,” she muttered.

  It lurched forward, like a piece of the Sweetmeadow grown legs, mud and trampled grass falling off it in chunks. Beneath, its hide was sweaty and pale. Runa braced herself to leap out of the way.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The lightstick began to crackle.

  She glanced at it in alarm, and the creature charged.

  Runa leapt out of the way. Almost too late. Almost did a hell of a lot of work when it came to staying alive.

  If she could lead it towards the Night, maybe she could lead it in and give that Nightlurker some dinner.

  Runa circled around at the beast got its bearings again.

  It looked up the slope towards the Rim, and her heart sank.

  “Hey! No!” She whistled at it. “Over here!”

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK?”

  She whistled again. The creature didn’t pay attention. She yelled, not daring to glance up to see whether Severine was safely away.

  The lightstick was past red hot. She raised it, and charged.

  The beast gave the slope one last doleful look—and then trotted up to meet her.

  Trotted.

  Slowly.

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK?” it squealed.

  It wasn’t attacking. She almost tripped over her own feet, slowing down so that she could not attack it in return. Her heart stumbled in her chest.

  It came up to her goddamn ribcage. Its head was the size of her torso. And now that it had finished rampaging across the Sweetmeadow like death on four legs, it stared up at her.

  Expectantly.

  “Hello?” she said uncertainly.

  “SCREEEEE-OOONK!”

  The lightstick was still crackling in her hand. She could end this now—but the creature wasn’t even attacking her.

  Her brow wrinkled. Underneath the mud and muck, it looked almost like…

  “A pig?” Runa blinked. “No way in hell do pigs get as big as you.”

  It snuffled at her.

  She dropped the lightstick. The blob of viscous heat at its tip vanished.

  A pig. A hungry pig, running at the first people it saw in the Cauldron. A pig that’d been here so long, the Cauldron itself wanted to nudge it out the front door.

  Runa rubbed her hand across her lips.

  “I wonder,” she began.

  ***

  “Pig!”

  Widow Tremblewood’s cry of delight echoed almost as loudly as the pig’s answering squeal. Runa had led the runaway out of the Cauldron, and the pig had known where it was the moment it had struggled over the Rim. No need to lead it home; it knew exactly where it was going.

  Audella hobbled forward and put her arms around the massive creature. “How did you find him?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “Oh, my poor Giblets, you’re all skin and bones!”

  Runa choked slightly. All skin and bones? The thing was all muscle. And teeth.

  “It found me,” she told Widow Tremblewood. “Severine and I went up to the Sweetmeadow, and it followed us out.”

  “Oh, so that’s what the poor dear was shouting about. She’s gone down to the tavern, crying about a monster.” Widow Tremblewood waved aside the image of Severine shouting warnings to the villagers. “And it was only poor little Giblets, after all! Hah! Been eating up the Cauldron, have you, pig? You’ve been listening to too many of Tam’s silly ideas. Didn’t scare you when he showed up, did he dear?”

  Runa folded her arms. No, of course not. Severine ran screaming over the hill for fun. “I’m just glad I realized what it was in time.”

  Widow Tremblewood clicked her tongue. “Getting into trouble, pig. Tut, tut. One day you’ll get yourself into a pickle even you can’t eat your way out of, and then where will you be, hmm? I can’t thank you enough, Runa, truly I can’t. It’s been a sorry year without him.”

  The old woman’s eyes were damp. Runa sent up a quick prayer to whatever gods might still be out there, in thanks that she’d walked back into Pothollow with the pig stumping along beside her, not barbequed and slung over her shoulders.

  “How’d it get so big?” Runa asked.

  Widow Tremblewood looked at her as though she’d grown another head. “Big? It’s a pig. What size are pigs where you come from?”

  Not that size, Runa replied silently. “Not many pigs in the Cauldron,” she said out loud.

  “Ah, well. And not up north either, I expect. Too cold. You don’t like the cold, do you, Giblets? Come on. Let’s get you something proper to eat.”

  She patted it on the rump and it fell into step neatly beside her, lumbering along the road.

  Runa watched them go, shaking her head.

  “I’ve gone into the Cauldron for monsters, treasure, and ancient magical secrets,” she muttered. “Pigs are a new one.”

  “Is that Widow Tremblewood’s pig back?” Corvin picked his way through the muck the pig had left behind. Runa nodded, and he made a face. “Thank you for the warning. I imagine there will be celebrations galore at the tavern tonight.”

  “It’s like I brought back her firstborn.”

  “She has dozens of children. Only one pig.” Corvin sighed. “If you’re meaning to eat at the tavern tonight, I’d get in and out early. Once Audella pulls out her moonshine, it’s all over.”

  Runa raised her eyebrows. “That almost sounds like friendly advice.”

  “I’m heading to the Sweetmeadow tomorrow to search for ingredients, and it’s thanks to you I won’t run into an unpleasantly sociable pig while I’m there.” He sniffed. “So yes. It is friendly advice. Though if you do decide to join the celebrations tonight, don’t come crying to me when the headache from Audella’s concoction lasts until the next full moon.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realise she was an apothecary, too.”

  He levelled a dry look at her. “Hilarious.”

  “You’re happy going into the Cauldron on your own?”

  “Are you offering to guard me against lost livestock?” He raised one eyebrow. “I believe I can manage by myself. Not all of us are as hapless as your clients back in the city. Besides, I wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His other eyebrow joined the first one near his hairline. “Taking two people on romantic walks to the same place, two days in a row? This is a small village. People will make up all sorts of stories.”

  “I told you, I’m not into dragons.”

  He stared at her, then gave a frustrated sigh. “It may not have occurred to you, but not everyone in this village can see with a single glance that I am a dragon,” he grumbled. “What are you doing here talking, anyway? Shouldn’t you be helping your date recover from being menaced by the local livestock?”

  He had a point.

  Runa headed for the tavern. Severine was tucked into one of the tables by the fire, an expression of glum embarrassment on her face. She looked up at Runa as she pulled out a chair, and her face brightened.

  “Apparently there’s going to be a party,” Severine said. “Someone rescued Widow Tremblewood’s lost pig.”

  “I might have heard something about that.” Runa rested her elbows on the table, gazing across it at Severine. “You all right?”

  “Well, I haven’t been gored by anyone’s pet. Though the fact that I came screaming in here only to be told I was panicking over nothing hurts a bit.”

  “I’m just glad I didn’t come up over the hill with a side of ham slung over my shoulder.”

  “Ooh.” Severine winced. “True. It could have been worse.”

  The door burst open. Widow Tremblewood stood on the threshold, legs akimbo, arms stretched around a small barrel. A strange vapor seeped out from the seam where the lid had been hammered shut.

  “It’s a celebration, everyone!” Widow Tremblewood announced.

  “Your pig dragging its ass home after half a year eating cursed beets in the Cauldron isn’t cause for celebration!” someone called out good-naturedly, and was immediately thumped around the head in response.

  “Well, if it isn’t, what is?” Widow Tremblewood waddled in under the weight of the barrel. Runa rose to help her carry it in, and her eyes immediately started to water.

  “What is this?” she asked, choking.

  “Pig whisky,” Widow Tremblewood said promptly. “Made from anything Giblets won’t eat. We waste nothing in Pothollow, you know. Come on, let’s get Junilla’s good stuff out, too.”

  “Not on your life.” Errant was behind the counter. “First Loaf Night is less than two months away, and I’m not going to tell Junilla we ran through her stocks before the festival.”

  Audella pulled the lid off the barrel, and Errant’s eyes went bloodshot and started to water.

  “On the other hand,” he said, choking slightly, “I’m sure Junilla would prefer not all her customers go blind from drinking pig whisky.”

  “Good lad. Come on, everyone, grab a cup!”